The First Temptation of Gene Hunt
by Special Patrol Groupie
Summary: Suppose you were Gene Hunt, 19 years old, just killed after making a boneheaded decision. Suppose someone offered to return you to your old life. What would you do?  Sorry, this is all to it. Forgot to mark it complete.


"THIS ISN'T RIGHT!"

The youth's voice echoed through the void. Beings that were in touch with the spirit would heard the cry. Some smirked, some sighed, others wept.

But as far as the youth was concerned, he was nearly alone. No … he could just barely make out the farm, a body, a man frantically digging a hole. Finally he tugged the body into the shallow grave. He threw a small black-covered booklet into the grave, then filled it in, covering the head first.

The youth wept, screamed, swore. He tried to tackle the man filling in the hole, but ran straight through him. He fell to his knees and pounded his fists against the ground. Finally he just laid against the ground, over his own grave, trying to force his way back into his body. Who cared if he had a big gaping hole in his head? Soldiers came back from the war with worse! He would find a way …

But the bonds had been broken, and there was no way to return to the life of the living. Realizing this, he sobbed as he hadn't since he was a very small boy, the only person who knew he, Gene Stephen Hunt had died, age 19.

"It's not right …" he kept saying. "It's … not … right …"

"Of course it isn't right," said a soothing voice behind him. A comforting hand rested on his shoulder. "You were only trying to do your job."

"I heard someone in the house."

"Yes. You didn't know who was there."

"I should have gone for backup."

"The intruders might have gotten away. Then what?"

The youth pulled himself up off the ground, looked around. A scarecrow loomed above him. He saw the glint of his warrant badge pinned to its collar. The man behind him also noticed it.

"How many years are people going to walk unknowingly and uncaringly over this sacred ground, hallowed by your blood? How many years will that scarecrow be your tombstone, that badge your sole epitaph?"

"What's your point?" the youth asked irritably, finally turning to look at the man. The man was deathly pale with thick black hair slicked back from his head. His dark eyes seemed kind. He wore a well-tailored double-breasted grey suit and wing tips.

"I can help you."

"How?"

He smiled. "I can give you your life back."

The youth tore himself away from the man. No wonder the situation didn't feel right. "For the low, low price of my immortal soul?" he snapped.

"Is that such a poor deal?" The man came closer. Gene backed up.

"Don't be afraid. It's not as bad as they make it sound. You start at the bottom, work your way up. I'll guide you, better than PC Morrison guided you. Stick with me, do as I tell you, and before long you'll be the one of the ones making the offers."

Gene spat out his answer. "Over my dead body."

"Precisely," said the man, gesturing to the fresh mound of dirt. "Now don't be stupid."

Gene sized up the man, the demon, Satan himself? He didn't know. He had no gun, no weapons, just his fists. The being seemed physically weak, used to battling with words. But this wasn't the world Gene had learned to fight in. If the man had the kinds of powers demons had in fairy tales – if he could actually return Gene to his old life - what else could he do? What chance did Gene have?

He finally made the considered decision to run for it.

It was worse than trying to run from someone shooting a machine gun – lightning bolts, fireballs, wolves, knives,_ and_ machine guns. The obstacle course from Hell. Literally. The weird part was the bright line weaving through the land, and the conviction that he would survive (strange word) if he followed that line.

Finally, the assault ended. Gene was breathing hard (why breathing?) but still in existence. And the man was coming up to him, unruffled.

"Not bad, Gene Hunt. Not bad at all. Pity to waste such tenacity."

The man raised both hands. Gene socked him in the gut. He doubled over, and Gene punched him again and again and again until he fell prone – then he kicked him repeatedly until, with an inhuman cry, it changed from a man to a monster.

"Someday, when you least expect it, I will destroy you, Gene Hunt," it said in an animal-like growl, and then dissolved into a cloud that smelled like rotten eggs. The wind picked up and blew it away – and before Gene could react, the farm, the scarecrow, the house, the mound of dirt, everything vanished. He seemed to spin through the air, as if caught in a tornado …

"Hey, Hunt."

He opened his eyes. He was standing outside the police station in the pouring rain. Plods were coming and going. And in front of him was ... could that be … ?

"Sergeant Woolf," he breathed.

"Please, I told you yesterday, don't be so formal, Hunt. Call me Woolf. Or Harry. I don't care which. What's wrong, hung over?"

Gene nodded, swallowed. "Yeah."

"You need to come inside, lad, or you'll catch your death of cold."

In the dim reflection from the glass front door, he looked closely at his face. The blood, the brain tissue, the fragments of skull – none of it was there. He touched his face with his gloved hand, then took the glove off and touched it again, even probing where he knew the bullet had entered. He felt nothing – just a normal head with normal skin over it. And he was back in the police station, exactly as if nothing ever happened. Had he won what the demon offered precisely by rejecting the offer?

"Hunt!" Woolf called. "Don't be such a conceited git. Now come on, we've got a meeting to attend."

Gene chuckled at himself and strode down the corridor after Sgt. Woolf.


End file.
